


goldfish love

by finned (tenderized)



Series: and i started to become greedy [2]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Kissing in the Rain, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Salmon Metaphors, is it a tenderized fic without some rain? some summer?, suna doesn't know the difference between goldfish and salmon...?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-26
Updated: 2020-09-26
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:27:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26666677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tenderized/pseuds/finned
Summary: “Where’d you put my baby?” he asks without turning around, bending over to dig through the drawers for a shirt, before straightening.“Yours? Thought it was s’posed to be mine.” Osamu moves to press up behind him and stretches past his shoulder to place a jar filled with clean water on the dresser. Inside, the fish moves lazily through the water, its fins butterfly-wing thin and scales flashing burnt gold. It bumps its head against one end before turning around to do the same to the wall at the other side.“A kimchi jar? Really?”
Relationships: Miya Osamu/Suna Rintarou
Series: and i started to become greedy [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1941619
Comments: 10
Kudos: 98





	goldfish love

**Author's Note:**

> Sensory Prompt: Neon lights at 1:30 AM, Trying to pull on clothes with damp skin

It’s raining hard, the sort of sudden storm that makes it hard to see and soaks your shirt transparent and settles heavy in your marrow. The streets are oil-slick bright, the fluorescent lights of the nearby traffic lights glancing off the wet pavement in watercolor streaks, and the mica chips embedded in the sidewalk glitter in the dark.

Although it’s barely eleven, the night market stalls have all been packed up early, the hangers full of summer dresses and tourist T-shirts rolled into slits between alley walls to save the goods from damage, and for the first time in Suna’s life, the bustle of the city is quiet but for the distant sound of traffic on the main roads further away.

Quiet is a concept that Suna actively seeks out, not something that finds him, not usually. It's an experience, not rare per se, but uncommon perhaps, and ever since he was a child, he's found himself attracting the loud and the bold. Back in grade school, all the way to middle school, the building next door was always undergoing construction, the constant drilling fading to background noise, there until it wasn't. And after he moved to Hyogo, well, considering the company he kept...

So he’s not unsettled, not really, but he fights the urge of pulling out his dead cell to check the time, not wanting to risk it in this weather. If this was home, there would be a FamilyMart or other nearby store to duck into, but as it is, Suna is unfamiliar with the city and doesn’t want to risk it. Not when his phone is dead, and not when someone is expecting him, anyway.

So, he waits.

He finds a low stone ledge and settles down on it, laying his head against his knees. The scratchy press of his jeans against the damp skin of his forehead is grounding, and this way the heavy drops against his neck and shoulders become metronome heartbeat.

He counts inside his head.

Seconds stretch into minutes into what feels like an eternity, until, suddenly, “Rintarou!” he hears, and his head snaps up. “You absolute fuckin’ idiot,” are the words that follow, and then he finds he’s smiling at the man running up to him.

“Atsumu,” he says, trying to be funny, because he _is_ an idiot and always has been one, especially when it comes to this one, and the worried look on Osamu’s face fades to something far more deadpan before he actually turns around and starts walking away, back in the direction from which he’d appeared.

The thing is, Osamu is holding an umbrella, so Suna straightens from his hunch and quickens his steps to hurry after the other, sidling up close. He has to bend a little to fit in underneath because even though they’re basically the same height, Osamu’s not making it easy for him, holding the umbrella so low.

“Why didn’t you answer your phone?” Osamu asks, glaring at him, his brows drawing in dark over his eyes. “I called ya like a million times.” His voice is the rough scrape of waves over seabed rocks, and _oh_ , Suna’s missed him so much. 

Osamu makes room, though, and doesn’t even protest although Suna knows he must be dripping cold rainwater onto the other, every centimeter of him waterlogged.

“It died,” Suna answers. _Because I used it too much on the train ride here and forgot to bring a charger,_ he leaves out.

One look at the other, and it’s clear that he’s unimpressed, but he doesn’t say anything. “You’re wet as hell,” is what comes out of his mouth instead, and then Osamu switches the umbrella to his other hand to reach out and brush at Suna’s damp bangs, tucking them behind his ear, the movement careful. 

His hand slides down to cup Suna’s cheek tenderly, and the skin of his palm and fingers is rough and callused. He watches Suna for a moment before his hand drops away. 

This whole thing is a little counterproductive because this allows the umbrella to move further away, results in the rain falling onto him, but Suna can’t find it in himself to complain, not when he’s soaked anyway, not when Osamu’s touching him. The other’s probably doing it on purpose anyway.

“It’s rude to stare,” Suna says, and Osamu rolls his eyes.

Suna takes the chance to grab hold of the older’s wrist, over his pulse, to tug him in closer and kiss him on chapped lips, the tip of his own nose warming against the other’s cheek. 

Osamu allows this for a moment, the press of his lips soft before he’s pulling away, brief, then leaning back in to wrap a solid arm around Suna’s waist to tug him forward in the direction they’d originally been walking.

“You'll get sick if we don’t hurry,” he says, not looking at Suna, and Suna laughs at his reddening cheek.

“Okay mom,” he says, and Osamu wrinkles his nose.

“Please don’t call me that.”

“Okay, dad–“

“Don’t finish that word, Rin” Osamu threatens. “Or I really will leave your ass out here on the streets, don’t think I miss ya that much.”

Suna laughs softly and leans further into the other’s hold. 

“I got you a gift,” he mentions while they’re waiting for the crosswalk light to turn green, and he takes the moment to observe the other. The umbrella that Osamu is using is transparent, and the city lights filter through watery and lovely, casting dull splashes of color over the handsome planes of the other’s face. Suna can’t look away. 

Osamu glances down to Suna’s hand, where long fingers are wrapped around wet plastic, the sides dewy with rain.

“I noticed.”

“Well?” Suna brings it up closer to both their faces, staring at the inside intently. “What do you think? I won it while I was waiting for you to arrive.”

“Great catch. I’m thinkin’ fish sounds pretty good for lunch tomorrow.”

Suna frowns at him. “Very funny.”

“Thank you, I think so, too.” 

Suna huffs and doesn’t say more, but he readjusts his grip on the other’s hand to pinch the meat of the other’s thumb hard, letting go only when the other flinches.

“I’m jokin’, Rin, I’ll look when we get home,” Osamu says, grinning when Suna just rolls his eyes. “It’s too dark to see properly, anyway.”

Osamu’s relentless walking pace turns out to be a blessing, and when they finally step into the lit hallway of Osamu’s apartment, it’s with relief that Suna obeys the other’s demands when the other shoos him off to his room, telling him to get changed, and takes the plastic bag from him. 

It takes Suna a couple of tries to find where Osamu keeps his clothing, and he’s only managed to rid himself of his pants, the jeans unsticking from his skin with an unpleasant sound, and wrestled his way into a pair of dry, clean sweats, the brush of cotton warm against his chilled skin, when he hears the sound of the door opening.

“Where’d you put my baby?” he asks without turning around, bending over to dig through the drawers for a shirt, before straightening.

“Yours? Thought it was s’posed to be mine.” Osamu moves to press up behind him and stretches past his shoulder to place a jar filled with clean water on the dresser.

Instinctively, Osamu's hands move to settle at his hips, and together, they watch the fish flutter inside, back and forth, back and forth. Inside the tub, the fish moves lazily through the water, its fins butterfly-wing thin and scales flashing burnt gold. It bumps its head against one end before turning around to do the same to the wall at the other side.

On closer observation, the goldfish scales are a mottle of color, parts of it fading almost pearlescent and others deepening darker, blood red. Suna reaches a hand out to trail a finger along the side of the clear plastic and wonders if fish can get sad, if fish get homesick, maybe.

He'd watched a documentary once, on salmon migration, on how salmon always know how to make it back home. Something to do with the Earth's magnetic poles. He wonders when his own compass realigned.

“A kimchi jar? Really?”

“I didn’t have anythin’ else,” Osamu says, pout in his voice. “We can go find something better tomorrow morning.”

“You’ve been demoted,” Suna says, turning around so they’re face to face. “We’re co-parents until we can be sure there’s no murderous intent from your end.”

“Co-parents, huh?” A pause, almost-hesitation, and then, “Is that a proposal to move in, then?” Osamu’s gaze lowers to his mouth, and he refuses eye contact.

Suna licks his lips and inhales through his nose. “Osamu…”

When Osamu closes the gap between them and presses Suna into the dresser, careful not to tip over the makeshift fishbowl, it’s with a sort of unspoken thanks that Suna allows him. The taste of his mouth is sweet, like iced wintermelon tea.

“I’m just kiddin’, Rintarou,” Osamu says when he pulls back. His fingers play with the wet fabric clinging to Suna’s shoulders. “But, just so ya know, the offer’s always open. Whenever you're ready.”

“I know,” Suna replies, and his fingers tighten against the back of Osamu’s shirt, where he’s gripped in near the other’s waist. They itch to pull him back in. “I know. Ask me again in a couple of months?”

Osamu smiles. “Yeah. Of course.”

A bead of water falls from Suna’s hair and onto his cheek, tracking its way down his skin, until Osamu reaches out with a finger to catch it.

“Lemme help you out of your shirt,” Osamu says, a bright look in his eyes.

Suna snorts. “Do whatever you want.”

He cringes at the sound his shirt makes as it unsticks from his skin and lets Osamu strip it from his body. A freshly laundered towel makes its way to his face, and then, the other is making him bend over to run it over his hair and over his torso.

“This is supremely unsexy,” he complains, when Osamu tugs at his hair again and slaps him on the back to straighten.

“Yeah?” Osamu counters. “What else could ‘getting ya out of your clothes’ mean?”

Suna sighs loudly, put-upon, and pulls a dry shirt from Osamu’s hands, choosing to put it on himself. The fabric of the threadbare T-shirt is thin, but it feels comforting against him, a little like sun against his skin. It smells like the fabric softener Osamu uses, and it’s a little oversized, stretched out at the collar.

He leans forward until he’s resting all his weight on the other, winds his arms around Osamu’s neck, and Osamu holds onto him just as tight, indulgent. 

Suna buries his face in the other’s neck and mumbles something.

“Can’t hear you when ya talk like that, Rin,” Osamu murmurs, the hand that’s not wrapped around his waist curling up in his unruly hair. 

“Shitty anniversary,” he raises his head to say before ducking back down.

Osamu pauses for a moment, before laughing. “What? With you here? Never.”

Suna just sniffs.

“Seriously, Rin, don’t worry about it. No one can control the weather.”

Osamu places both hands on his cheeks, cupping his face, and forces him to maintain eye contact. “We’ve got an entire week to ourselves before ya have to leave. Okay?”

And no one’s ever called Suna an optimist, but it’s hard to continue feeling sorry for himself and the whole ‘long-distance’ thing when Osamu’s looking at him like that, when Osamu’s _right here in front of him_ , and despite himself, he finds his lips quirking up.

“You’re so nice to me now,” he says. “Maybe I should stay away longer next time.”

Osamu narrows his eyes. “Don’t joke about that,” he growls, and Suna’s smile spreads.

“Take me to bed, Miya?”

With that, the look in Osamu’s eyes softens, and he grins back. 

“Get cleaned up, I put a toothbrush on the counter for ya, and everythin’ else should be in the bathroom. I’m gonna get changed first.”

Suna raises his eyebrows.

“No funny business tonight, I’m tired,” Osamu warns.

“I’d never,” Suna replies, affronted expression on his face, and the older snorts, giving him a smack on the ass as he leaves the room.

Later, when they’re in bed, legs tangled together, Suna can’t find it in himself to fall asleep immediately, despite the exhaustion that had been plaguing him all night. When he shifts to glance at the nightstand, the square, red numbers indicate that it’s 1:30 AM. They’d moved the fishbowl to the nightstand, and he can just barely make out the fluttering of its tail as it swims back and forth.

By his side, Osamu shuffles closer.

“Want me to close the curtains?” he mumbles, words soft and slurred by sleep.

Suna glances down, and he’s suddenly overcome by just how _good_ this man is to him. The shifting neon lights from the bar next door trail ghosts of blue and purple across the bed sheets, and it’s just them here in this moment. This microcosm of theirs.

“Nah.” Softly, he trails his knuckles over the curve of the other’s jaw. 

Osamu presses a smile into his skin. “I’m glad you came over, Rin.”

Suna blinks at him, and something in the center of his chest rights itself, settles.

“Yeah.” Under the covers, his hand seeks out Osamu’s, and when he finds it, he holds on tight. “Me too.”

**Author's Note:**

> twitter at [@atsusuna](https://www.twitter.com/atsusuna)


End file.
